


Teaching Newt Scamander

by sameuspegasus



Series: Newt at School [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Homework, Original Character(s), POV Outsider, newt at hogwarts, teacher pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 04:04:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9367181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sameuspegasus/pseuds/sameuspegasus
Summary: What do you do with a boy who won't be taught?orTeachers discuss their students. Especially the unusual ones.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this is basically 3000 words of teachers discussing Newt (because you know there must have been a lot of discussion about Newt) and one teacher in particular who doesn't understand him.
> 
> It accompanies Sorting Newt Scamander, but you don't need to read that one first.
> 
> This is hopefully going to turn into a series of short fics from different points of view, scattered throughout Newt's formative years at Hogwarts.
> 
> Also, Eddie Redmayne is a delight.

 

Professor Parkinson heaved a sigh and rolled the length of parchment up, setting it aside. Elbows on his desk, he cradled his head in his hands, massaging his temples. That bothersome Scamander child had responded to the assignment of a 2 foot essay on dragon extermination by writing four feet of drivel about why dragons should be allowed to roam free, setting fire to villages, terrorizing the wizarding community and killing all in their path. It had included a detailed drawing of a Common Welsh Green, along with several paragraphs suggesting that the killing of dragons for their blood and heartstrings be outlawed. To be fair, the child raised some interesting points, but he had entirely failed to grasp the unpredictability and brutality of a dragon. Not to mention the fact that his essay about killing dragons had included half a foot on theories of fire production and nothing whatsoever about killing dragons. Professor Parkinson had graded it “Dreadful”. The only reason he hadn’t graded it “Troll” was because Newt was teetering on the edge of completely failing third year Defence Against the Dark Arts and he didn’t think he could cope with trying to teach Newt about the dangers of dark beasts again.

Half an hour later he was in the staff room. He sloshed a generous splash of firewhisky into a glass and, giving the elderly Professor Binns a wide berth, made his way across the chamber to join the small group of teachers gathered around the fire. “Evening, Albus,” he said, settling in to one of the comfortable chairs and taking a large swallow of whisky.

“Gerald,” Albus acknowledged him.

“Do you mind if I ask your advice, Albus?” Parkinson ventured.

“I cannot promise to offer great wisdom,” Dumbledore answered, “But certainly you may ask.”

Parkinson took another gulp of firewhisky. “That Scamander child,” he began, “What are we to do about him?”

“Do about him?” Albus peered at Parkinson over his half-moon spectacles. Gerald felt suddenly scrutinized, as though he was being judged by someone much older than himself, rather than someone who had only begun teaching a few years ago. “My dear Gerald, why do you think we need to do something about Newt?”

Parkinson spluttered. “Why do we need to do something about him? Albus, the boy will not be taught!”

“He has an admirable independence of mind,” said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling in an irritating manner. Gerald always felt a little as though Albus was subtly making fun of him. He couldn’t think why he’d chosen to go to him for advice.

“That’s all very well, Albus, but he entirely ignores the facts in favour of presenting his own naïve opinions. He’s just not keeping up with the rest of the Hufflepuffs.”

“But are they facts, Gerald? There can be no progress without people who question the established mode. And as for keeping up with the rest of the Hufflepuffs, I rather think young Newt is running in an entirely different race.”

“His essay on Dragon Extermination contained no information whatsoever on the extermination of dragons!”

Gerald’s rising voice had attracted the attention of several nearby teachers.

“His essay on hovering charms included a fascinating interlude on mooncalves,” Professor Diggle, the Charms witch, chimed in, “Unfortunately, I had remove marks for neglecting to describe how to perform the charm. And I must say, he does a superb _reparo_ charm. One would never have known those pixies had escaped on Thursday.”

Parkinson suppressed a scoff. “And how did those Pixies come to be in your classroom in the first place?”

“Now, Gerald,” Professor Diggle scolded him, “There is no proof Newt was responsible for that.”

“Newt Scamander,” Madam Plank, the Hogwarts healer, interjected, “Has been sneaking into the forest again. I had him back in the hospital wing yesterday. If he’s not more careful, something in those trees is going to save you the trouble of doing something about him.”

Gerald sighed. It was children like Newt that made him wish he’d never become a teacher. To think he could have had a nice, peaceful life writing books about counter-jinxes. “What’s he done to himself?”

“He told me an owl nipped him, but if it was an owl bite there’s a terrifyingly large owl somewhere in the forest,” said Madam Plank. “I wish students wouldn’t lie about their maladies. It makes it much more difficult to heal them.”

Dumbledore smiled at Madam Plank. “I’m sure a healer of your skill can heal any wound without needing to know what caused it. After all, not a single student has died since your employment here began. I hear you hold the record for the lowest mortality rate in Hogwarts history.”

Madam Plank glowered, but Gerald could see she was trying not to smile. Albus was always good at winning people over. “Well yes,” Madam Plank admitted, “But Newt seems to be doing his best to ruin that. That’s the fifth time this year and it’s only November.”

“He’s such a nice boy, though,” Professor Diggle, “We in Hufflepuff appreciate your efforts in keeping him alive, Chrysanthemum.”

She would say that. She was head of Hufflepuff after all. Gerald frowned, “He’s always seemed a bit shifty to me. Never looks you in the eye. Never makes an effort with the other students. Certainly he’s always polite about it, but he just doesn’t try to get along with them. Doesn’t take an interest in others, you know. Annoys people.”

Albus smiled in that annoyingly enigmatic way of his and said, “I hardly think he is shifty, Gerald. In fact, I rather think he is one of the most honest people of my acquaintance.”

“Albus, he spent a full year and a half lying deceiving us about the true nature of that cat of his,” Parkinson exclaimed in frustration. He still felt that the school had been too soft on the boy, allowing the lynx to be sent home to the Hippogriff sanctuary the boy’s mother ran. They should have destroyed it, but Dumbledore had somehow convinced the headmaster to take into account both the fact that the lynx had not yet hurt anyone and the extreme distress Newt was displaying. Parkinson still suspected that Dumbledore had known all along Newt’s cat wasn’t a cat.

“Ah, but have you ever witnessed Newt being anything but true to himself?”

Parkinson was not entirely sure what Dumbledore meant by that, but if it was that Newt would listen to instructions and then politely do whatever he wanted, then no, Parkinson had never witnessed him being anything other than true to himself. He sighed. Newt needed to learn that just because he didn’t like the idea of something, it didn’t mean it wasn’t true. The forbidden forest was forbidden for a reason. Homework assignments must adhere to the topic. A psychic Lynx could not be kept as a pet like an ordinary cat. Dragons were evil, ferocious, highly dangerous wild magical creatures that must be exterminated for the safety of mankind. He would just have to call the boy into his office, have what he expected would be a highly exasperating conversation with him, and have the boy re-do his essay based on what had been taught in class, rather than the idealistic imaginings of a thirteen-year-old brain.

“I’ll have to speak to him,” he told the other teachers, “He just doesn’t seem able to grasp the material taught in third-year Defence against the Dark Arts. He lacks the ability to perform to third-year standard.”

“On the contrary,” said Dumbledore, “He seems to me to be a very bright child. He was the only third-year to successfully transfigure his teapot into a turtle. He even turned his bag into an aquarium for it, which took spellwork far more intricate than has thus far been taught to my third-years. Refused to reverse it, of course, but what’s one more animal in the lake.”  

Diggle nodded approvingly, “His practical charm work is exemplary. No unnecessary flourishes or shouting, as youngsters are prone to.”

Parkinson was beginning to feel a little ganged up on. He’d come over here for sympathy and advice on dealing with a difficult student, not to be told how exemplary said child’s performance was in other classes. He glanced over at Professor Binns. The ancient History of Magic Professor had cornered Fergus McGonagall, who taught Potions, and was droning away about something in his dull, flat monotone. Fergus was puffing on his pipe, a glazed look on his face. Gerald knew for a fact that both of these teachers harboured similar feelings about Newt to his own. Fergus had complained bitterly to him just yesterday that the Scamander boy had taken to making up his own potions, while Binns had been most upset by the interruption to his lessons the boy’s unpleasant pet had caused last year. Somehow, though, he couldn’t bring himself to call them over. Whether or not Binns supported him, the old man was sure to bore them all stupid by talking ceaselessly and monotonously for a minimum of twenty minutes. Gerald just didn’t have the patience for it today.

“Has he had any difficulty with any other aspects of your class?” Dumbledore asked him, “Or does he simply disagree with your view on the treatment of magical creatures?”

Parkinson thought for a moment. It was true that prior to starting third-year, which covered defence against dangerous creatures, Newt’s performance had been perfectly satisfactory, despite the fact that he never seemed to be paying attention. He’d performed surprisingly well in the practical section of his end of year tests, coming out relatively unscathed, although his defence strategy against hexes seemed to largely consist of dodging and running away. His written work had also been up to standard, other than a tendency to wander off the point and suggest defence strategies such as luring the attacker into a stand of wand trees and letting the Bowtruckles take care of it, or in more extreme cases setting a fire crab on them. It seemed Newt simply had a blind spot where magical creatures were concerned and would only accept what he wished was true as the truth.

“It’s just the Beasts that seem to be giving him trouble,” he admitted, “I’ll speak to him tomorrow. “

“Well, don’t be too harsh on him,” Diggle said, “He’s a sensitive child. He finds these things difficult.”

Parkinson snorted. “What things? Being told he’s wrong? Everyone needs to learn to accept criticism at some point, Constance.”

“People, Gerald,” said Albus, softly. “He finds people difficult.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Scamander, stay behind,” Professor Parkinson ordered. His third-year class of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws was stampeding out of the classroom like a herd of cattle. It was always difficult holding the attention of a class for an hour, but last thing on a Friday was the worst.

Newt stayed where he was, head bowed, eyes shifting frantically from his desk to the opposite wall to the door and back to his desk, never looking at his teacher. He fiddled uncomfortably with his quill, which looked to Parkinson suspiciously like a phoenix feather. “I’m in rather a hurry,” he said to the floor.

“Nonsense,” said Parkinson. Newt was a third-year who wasn’t on the Hufflepuff quidditch team and didn’t belong to any clubs. He had no business to be hurrying anywhere on a Friday afternoon. “Come here, Scamander.”

Newt glanced up and quickly looked away again. Reluctantly, he made his way up to Parkinson’s desk, clutching his bag tightly in his right hand, his left hand gripping both his phoenix-feather quill and his wand. He stood in front of Parkinson’s desk, head down, untidy hair falling across his face, eyes focused somewhere in the region of Parkinson’s left foot.

“Newt,” said Gerald, with determined gentleness. Dumbledore and Diggle had both been so insistent that Newt’s rudeness was the result of Newt’s finding people difficult, rather than a simple disinclination to show respect to those around him, that Gerald had come into this confrontation resolutely intending to be kind but firm. He would not speak sharply, or irritably, or yell, as he so badly wanted to do. Instead, he would offer Newt the opportunity to re-attempt the homework assignment and complete the essay based on what he had been taught in class. This was to be followed up by a quiet but firm reminder (at Madam Plank’s request) that the large forest in the grounds was out of bounds to students. Chrysanthemum had suggested adding an explanation that the reason for this was the great variety of dangerous magical creatures the forest was home to, coupled with the risk of getting lost or lured into an inescapable magical trap resulting in violent death. He’d decided to forgo the explanation, though. He rather thought Newt would see it as an incentive as opposed to a deterrent. “Do you know why you received this grade?” He asked, unfurling Newt’s Dragon Extermination essay on his desk so the large red D was visible.

Newt shook his head, still looking down.

“Newt,” Gerald said, maintaining an even tone with great effort. “When a Professor asks you a question, you must answer it in full, addressing the Professor as ‘Sir’ or ‘Professor’. Do you understand why I awarded you a ‘D’ for this work?”

“Because you believe in the event of an encounter with a dragon the only possible option is to kill it,” Newt answered quietly, eyes now fixed on a point somewhere near Parkinson’s left elbow. “And I politely disagree. Sir.”

“What you must understand, Newt,” said Gerald, choking down the urge to grasp the boy by his hunched shoulders and force him to stand up straight and look him in the eye, “Is that there is no way of controlling a dragon, or even containing a dragon, without the use of deadly force. Humans must be protected from the enormous danger they pose.”

“You mean no way has been found yet,” Newt returned, his knuckles white where he grasped his bag.

“You must call me Sir, Scamander,” Gerald stated, a note of steel creeping into his voice despite himself. “And you must accept that what you are taught in class is what will be most useful and most practical should you ever encounter such a situation in real life, and complete the essay as requested.”

Newt looked up, suddenly meeting Parkinson’s eyes with a disconcertingly perceptive gaze. “Have you ever seen a dragon in real life?”

Parkinson blustered for a second, caught off guard by the sudden show of assertiveness. Of course he hadn’t seen a dragon in real life. There hadn’t been a dragon sighting in mainland Britain for 40 years (the Common Welsh Green was less common than the name would suggest), and Parkinson was a firm believer in the first rule of defence: do not go looking for trouble. Risk avoidance was the cornerstone of both the Ministry of Magic’s policy on defence and the Hogwarts’ Defence against the Dark Arts syllabus. _Of course_ he’d never killed a dragon himself.

“Well, no,” he said. It came out more flustered and defensive than he meant it to, and he mentally kicked himself for it.

“Then how can you know that what you’re teaching is the truth, not just what people are told to do because everyone’s too scared to find a better way?”   

Newt was still looking at him. This much sustained eye contact from someone who had never before so much as looked him in the face was highly unnerving. It was throwing him even more than the line of questioning.

“Five points from Hufflepuff!” Parkinson almost shouted, abandoning the attempt to treat this poor, socially inept child (Oh, Dumbledore and Diggle had been entirely taken in by the façade of the sweet child who found people ‘difficult’) with the gentleness of one luring a frightened kitten out of a tree. “How dare you be so impertinent? Repeat the essay, answering the question posed, or your grade will stand. You’re at serious risk of failing this class entirely, young man, and I will not stand for your lack of respect anymore. The fact that you don’t want something to be true doesn’t mean it isn’t true, and the sooner you learn that the better.” He took a breath. Newt’s gaze had left Parkinson’s face. The boy was looking wistfully at the door, his attention apparently having waned during Parkinson’s tirade. Parkinson glared at him, before suddenly remembering what Madam Plank had requested he do. He added, “And if I so much as suspect you’ve been sneaking into the forest again, detention will be the least of your worries. Now get out.”

Newt collected his essay and made for the door. “Yes, Sir,” he said, “I really am in rather a hurry.”

 

* * *

 

Professor Parkinson made his way back to the staffroom and poured himself a large firewhisky. He knocked it back in one shuddering gulp and poured himself another. He could only hope the boy saw reason and re-did the essay. Albus crossed the room to speak to him, a smug little smile just visible within his beard. “Remarkable boy, isn’t he,” the transfiguration teacher said. “He’ll be a remarkable man someday.”

Gerald said nothing and grumpily took a swallow of firewhisky. Something would have to be done about the Scamander boy. Albus might call Newt remarkable, but the first word that came to Parkinson’s mind was _dangerous_.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 


End file.
